


William

by ascandalonbakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drugs, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spoilers for all three series, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascandalonbakerstreet/pseuds/ascandalonbakerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper met Sherlock Holmes in a dingy corridor of the Wolfson building in Trinity College, Cambridge. // She wishes she’d have had the guts to tell him, to have been honest, but didn’t want to break his heart. She thinks about him asleep on her sofa and wishes he’d afford her the same courtesy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	William

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing in the Sherlock fandom - please be nice! With thanks to sundance201 on tumblr for the inspiration for the first part of the fic!

Monday 20th May 2014, 3:22 am

She’s surprised she manages to hear the knock on the front door, but truly outdoes herself when something inside her tells her to open it. As she tugs her dressing gown from the hook on the back of the bedroom door and slips into the hallway, two things dawn on her.  
1\. There is only one man on Earth with the audacity to be knocking on her door at this time in the morning, and  
2\. The ‘something’ that compels her to let him in does not reside within her skull.  
She can't decide if the ‘something’ is her heart or her gut. In either case, something isn’t right.

By the time she unlocks the door she’s pulled the black and white polka-dot robe over her pyjamas and is pushing her hand through her hair. She’s still half asleep, but she sobers up immediately when Sherlock collapses against her, pushing his face into her shoulder.

“Sherlock?” Molly ventures, bringing her hand to rest on the small of his back. Though he periodically turned up needing somewhere to sleep – or just somewhere to _be_ – while he was ‘dead’, he hadn’t been here since his return.

“Sor-…” His voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat to try again. “S’rry. ’m s’sorry. ‘m really, really s’rry.” She can’t remember him apologising for doing this before. Usually, he insists it's necessary; insists he was bored; insists he couldn’t think without it. Then again, she supposes, she hasn’t seen this first-hand since before he met John, before he became a household name, before the world and its mother had a case for him to s— 

Before he met John. The wedding. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. She takes a deep breath, already anticipating the answer to what she’s about to ask.

“What have you done, Sherlock?” There are two excruciating seconds of nothing before he shakes his head and does his best to press himself closer to her. She clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, reminding herself that, if he’s still high, shouting at him is going to do nothing for either of them. Instead, she keeps one hand on his back and brings the other to his cheek.

“Look at me, please,” She mutters, running her thumb across his cheekbone. Sherlock slowly brings his head up but refuses to meet her eyes. Fortunately – unfortunately? – he doesn’t need to. She sees his pupils – blown wide, empty – and her suspicions are confirmed. She takes his hand in hers and guides him to the sofa, encouraging him to sit down. Silently, slowly, delicately, she pushes his coat off of his shoulders. He slumps back into the cushions, absent eyes drifting to a spot on the wall behind her. She takes her opportunity and pulls his coat from underneath him, searching the pockets for the slip of paper she knows she has to find. Having retrieved it, she sets her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and shakes him back to reality for a second. He jolts in his place, and his eyes snap from the wall to her face.

“I’m going to get you something to change into, okay?”

“Mm…” He hums his noncommittal response, head lolling to the side and tongue curling in his mouth. She retreats to her bedroom, shoving the list in her pocket before calling the only person who’s seen more of Sherlock’s comedowns than she has. The phone rings once before he picks up.

 _“Miss Hooper, are you quite aware of the time?”_ His tone is scolding, and yet Molly detects a slight waver in his voice that’s enough to tell her he already knows what’s going on. He’s barely finished his sentence before Molly replies.

“Mycroft he’s high but not in a cocky ‘look how clever I am’ way in a ‘can’t keep his eyes open’ way he fell onto me when I opened the door and couldn’t get his words out when he tried to apologise to me—”

 _“Tried to apologise?”_ His words come through the shuffling of fabrics on the other end of the line.

“I can’t figure that out either; he’s never done that before. Can you come please?”

 _“Fifteen minutes.”_ He hangs up before she has the chance to respond. Molly rummages around in the bottom of her wardrobe to find some of his clothes, settling on some plain black pyjama bottoms and a ratty grey t-shirt. She can’t decide if she’s pleased when he has a brief moment of lucidity as she’s helping him out of his dress shirt.

“Wh’re’s T’m?” He mumbles, undoing his belt buckle as she slips the t-shirt on to his slight frame, deliberately ignoring the marks on his arm.

“At his mum’s. Had a row. Don’t ask, don’t deduce, don’t say anything.” Even in his current state Sherlock acknowledges the absence of niceties, the short sentences, and keeps his mouth shut while she pulls the pyjama bottoms up his legs. Knowing that he’s going to be here a few hours, she helps him recline, propping his head up on a couple of cushions. She sits cross-legged on the floor next to him, running her index finger across his knuckles and studying his expression of inexplicable serenity as she waits for Mycroft to arrive.

Fifteen minutes to the second later a knock sounds, and she halts her therapeutic movements to get the door. It hurts to have to ignore the whine that Sherlock emits in her absence, but they have to have this over with as soon as possible. Molly and Mycroft exchange the briefest of glances before she hands over the list – she can see his heart drop into his stomach as he reads. 

“Have you read this?” He asks. She shakes her head. “Good. For your sake, ensure that it remains that way.”

“I'm here, y'know.” Sherlock intervenes, aiming for assertive and missing by a mile. Mycroft is quick to respond.

“Brother mine, we are all too aware.” Mycroft shrugs himself out of his jacket and perches on the edge of the sofa as Sherlock lets out a jaw-splitting yawn, despite his best efforts to stifle it. Molly presses her lips together as she retakes her seat on the floor.

“How long ago, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks.

“Ten h’rs.” Comes the delayed response. Molly glances at Mycroft as his eyes scan over the paper again. He nods almost imperceptibly. Although she’s no idea what the list says, she’s certain it’s not cocaine. Cocaine focusses him; right now he’s slack-jawed, glancing about the room through tired, half-lidded eyes. Presumably heroin, then. She’s seen him on heroin before, but couldn’t quite get him to explain what circumstances had prompted the choice. She decides not to spend too much time thinking about the chances – 100% if you’re curious – of there being more than one thing on the list. Instead, she returns to stroking the top of his hand.

It’s another half an hour before his breathing picks up, and further forty minutes before the shakes and sweating that his guardians have been anticipating start. Sherlock’s hand trembles as he tries to grab hold of Molly’s to stop her walking away. She squeezes his in return.

“I’ll be right back, Sherlock. Mycroft’s just here, okay?” Mycroft lays a hand on Sherlock’s ankle as if to prove the point. Sherlock hums and nods, a shiver running up his spine as he releases her hand. She returns less than two minutes later, bearing a floral tea-towel and a mixing bowl full of lukewarm water, to Mycroft muttering vague words of comfort to him as he runs his thumb across his leg. Molly looks on affectionately as she sits down, dipping the towel into the water and wringing it out. Slowly, and as gently as she can manage, she runs the towel across his temples and hairline, down his neck and across his collar bones, mumbling reassurances at the tiny noises of approval he emits in response to the sensation. Soon he’s sniffling, too; doing his best to wipe his nose on his hand and wrist before Mycroft, grimacing, presses a silk handkerchief into his hand.

“Thank you.” His speech is tight, monotonous, hollow, but at least it’s not slurred.

Molly continues to press the tea-towel to his forehead, periodically pushing his curls away and smiling when he leans into the touch. He’s turned onto his side, now, as Mycroft had suggested when he started dry-heaving into a waste paper basket. Eventually – neither Molly or Mycroft is entirely sure when – Sherlock falls asleep. He still has goosebumps all over his arms, and he’s shivering ever so slightly, but his breathing is deep, and his face is free of the lines that his pained expressions bring with them. Mycroft leans forward and holds his head in his hands as Molly shrugs out of her dressing gown and tucks it around Sherlock’s body, adding the afghan from the back of the sofa too.

“Why heroin?” She mutters as she steps back.

“That’s a question he’ll have to answer whenever he wakes up.” The adrenaline is beginning to wear off. Molly glances at the clock on the wall as Mycroft silently slips back into his jacket. 5:42 am.

“Are you okay to get home?” Molly asks. Her question dissolves into a yawn. Mycroft’s eternal stoicism breaks into a soft, sincere smile.

“I’ll be fine, Doctor Hooper. I apologise on Sherlock’s behalf. Do not hesitate to call me if anything changes, or if you need assistance.” Molly nods as the elder Holmes brother opens the door, a quick adieu passing silently between the two of them. She arbitrarily tucks the blankets around Sherlock again before returning to her bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Just in case. 

It wasn’t always like this, Molly muses, staring at the ceiling in her bedroom over an hour later. It used to be so much simpler between the two of them. She smiles at the thought of an 18-year-old Sherlock extending his hand to her in the corridor outside their adjacent Wolfson rooms at Cambridge. She knew that doorstop would come in handy. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He grinned. Really, truly, honest-to-God grinned. She doesn’t see that expression a lot anymore.

“Molly Hooper and I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there’s nothing bright about your hair.” The boy smirked.

“The decision lacked foresight, I concede. William Sherlock Scott Holmes – I prefer my middle name.” Molly nodded.

“Sherlock it is, then.”

She noticed very quickly that Sherlock was unusual, in the most positive sense of the word: three steps ahead of any of their chemistry lecturers, and able to reel off lists of information that had Molly trying not to giggle in a silent lecture theatre. Though they shared a kitchen, the time they spent together was never out of necessity. More often than not you'd find them in the library, or in each other's room, but you'd rarely find them alone.

Still, though, the boy – man? – was something of an enigma, unless he forgot to be. In their second year, the pair moved into a double set in Great Court. (Sherlock still isn't sure how much influence Mycroft had on that outcome. He was only 25 at the time but, well, he's Mycroft, and Sherlock's still not sure that mixed-gender roommates were strictly permitted.) Sherlock was closed off and indifferent – but only to anybody who didn't really know him. But Molly. Molly knew him. If he felt out of his depth, if he'd had a rough day, if he'd come down with something, he’d seek out her duvet and use her as a body pillow until he felt ready to face the world again. She’d never complained about the arrangement. (Though she’s never quite understood it before, it suddenly dawns on her why he turns up on her doorstep when he's going to crash. She mentally slaps herself for not catching on earlier.) Every time he came to her he’d give her something more about himself, and every something more made him impossibly more remarkable – and she doesn't mean clever. She never cared about clever.

In their third year, though, something switched in him. Ask her about Sebastian Wilkes – she dares you. Her jaw clenches at the thought. The William-but-I-prefer-my-middle-name she once knew simply didn’t exist anymore. _No, Molly,_ she scolds herself, _that’s not quite true_. He did exist, she just didn’t know where he’d gone. Living on opposite sides of Trinity, she didn’t see much of him anymore, but she heard a lot about his new 'friends'. He observed, but he never listened; he never heard half of what the boys would say to him, or say behind his back. She did, though. She saw the looks exchanged between the rest of them at breakfast when Sherlock looked down at his plate for a split second. She saw that when they walked as a group Sherlock was always lagging behind. She never said a word, though; she wanted him to keep smiling even if it wasn’t because of her. She got a text one day in 2010 asking if she knew that ‘they all hated him’, and feigned shock in her response. He could probably tell by her punctuation that she was lying. Maybe he knew all along. She wishes she’d have had the guts to tell him, to have been honest, but she didn’t want to break his heart. She thinks about him asleep on her sofa and wishes he’d afford her the same courtesy.

Though she had another two years to go, Sherlock graduated after four. She’d sat at the back of the hall, unwilling to miss the moment, but didn’t see him again until December of 2007. She’d landed herself a job at St. Bart’s – she couldn’t believe her luck, though nobody who knew her was surprised – and was sewing up Mr Davies when a police inspector entered the room with a 24-year-old Sherlock trailing behind him. He was prattling on about a cousin but stopped in his tracks when he realised who was standing in front of him.

“Molly.” He said, after a moment of silence, with a curt nod in her direction. Molly smiled tightly.

“D’you two know each other?” The inspector – who she later comes to know as Greg Lestrade – questions, his index finger wagging between the two of them. 

“Yes. The cousin knew that Davies was…”

That's all she heard of the deduction, suddenly preoccupied with how easy it was for him to act like that. When he showed up at her flat two weeks later – and no, she doesn’t know how he got her address – it was eleven o’clock at night, but she let him in.

He lived a double life for the next three years: acquaintances at St Bart’s and William-but-I-prefer-my-middle-name when he turned up at her flat and sat in silence for a while. She didn’t know, at first. She didn’t know he was so quiet because he was out of his head on whatever he’d taken. Mycroft filled her in on that minor detail, telling her to find the list that would be somewhere on his person and text him whatever it said. 

Then he met John and she lost half of him again; she only had the St Bart’s bit of him left. That was okay, though. She knew he was happy. She knew he’d stopped the drugs because there’s no way he could be living with a doctor and have a brother like Mycroft and still get away with it. He was terrified of making a bad impression on John – he wouldn’t have done anything to risk that. Maybe he didn’t want to make the same mistake again; didn’t want to lose John like he’d lost Molly. Maybe that was wishful thinking on her part.

She’s since decided to forgive herself for being so bloody awkward around him. Wouldn’t anyone be awkward if they never really knew who they were talking to? She’s just fine with letting everybody believe that she didn’t know how to talk to the man because she loved him. That was better than the alternative; that was better than the truth. It was better than the fact that he used to need her and then he just needed her lab. He was okay, though: he had John. So she was okay too, even if any attempt at a relationship had ended in disaster. Certain criminal masterminds will remain unnamed.

Still, there was only so long she could keep that up for; only so long she could bite her tongue. So, when he embarrassed her in front of all those people on Christmas sodding Eve she let him know he’d done something wrong. She let him know in her own, understated little way: 'you always say such horrible things'. Always extending only to the Sherlock who needed her lab, of course. In his defence, he did apologise, and then promptly recognised a woman by not-her-face, and she was momentarily back to square one. Still, she refused to stop biting her tongue. Even when he uttered her name in that way, in that desperate, pleading way that was begging her for the sake of the last 11 years and for the sake of everything else not to choose that moment to start voicing her observations. But she was right, wasn’t she? He wasn’t okay, and she didn't count. _No_ – she corrects herself – _that’s not quite true, either, Molly_. She does count; he said so. She’s just seen it all before. Why would he bother hiding from somebody who always made him okay again? She was honoured, really, in some twisted way, that he needed her again, and God, isn't it scary how much she enjoyed being used? A step in the right direction, she’d dubbed it. A bit morbid, now she thinks about it, needing her to help him die. But she’s a pathologist, isn’t she? What does she care about morbid?

For those two years, he would seek out her duvet again. He’d show up at her door with gashes on his legs and his back and need them sewing up, unable to remember the last time he'd eaten or slept. But he needed her, so she’d fix him, muttering profuse apologies in vague response to the noises of discomfort he emitted at the feeling of silk thread being pulled through his skin. She’d feed him, get him in and out of the shower, and then let him fall into bed and against her chest and sleep, and sleep, and sleep. Neither of them ever voiced what they both knew: the déjà vu of the whole thing. No, she just shut up and let him sleep.

And she’s doing it again, isn’t she? She’s in her bedroom staring at the ceiling in silence at 7:53 am when she’s got work in an hour and he’s asleep on her sofa but he needs her and she can’t bring herself to say no to him because where’s he going to go if she does? John? No – Honeymoon. Back to Baker Street? Not likely – that’s why he’s here in the first place. She pushes her hands through her hair and grabs her phone from the bedside table, firing off a text to let Mike know she won’t be in today. _Only lies have detail._ Shut up, Sherlock. She tries her best to go back to sleep, but all she does is think about him and if he’ll be okay when he wakes up. As it happens, she doesn’t have to wait very long for the answer, because at 8:04 he pads down the hallway and taps lightly on her door.

“…Molly?” He whispers. Croaks? It’s hushed, in either case. She turns her head to the door. “Can I come in?” He asks. She can see his hand shaking as it rests against the door.

“Mm.” She nods. He approaches the bed, waiting for her to pull the duvet back before he climbs in. At first, he just mirrors her position, laying on his back doing his best to examine the lampshade in the dim light of the bedroom. The pounding in his head silently thanks her for closing the curtains before he disturbed her night. Molly frowns from the other side of the bed, eyes still on him.

“Do you not want a cuddle?” Her question is sincere, gentle, and laced with quiet surprise. He wonders how she could want him anywhere near her but opts not to question it, lest he change her mind. He nods. She extends her arm to him, and he immediately shuffles over, dropping his head onto her shoulder and draping his arm across her middle.

“You’re still shaking.” She mutters, rubbing his back with one hand and resting the other on his forehead. “And you’ve got a bit of a temperature.” As he wipes his nose on his wrist again, she knows that the worst of this is yet to come. 

“I know.” He mumbles, yawning as discreetly as he can manage. 

She’s silent for a second, but can't stop herself and can't see why she should.

“Why, Sherlock?”

“Why what?” He speaks against her collarbone.

“Why now? Why heroin, not cocaine?”

“Cocaine is a stimulant. Couldn't stop thinking – wanted to slow down.” She frowns, tightening her hold on him for a second. She knows he's tired, with his sentences deteriorating like that, but she's not finished. 

“Is that all I’m going to get out of you at the moment?”

“That’s all you need. Think.” She chooses to verbalise her earlier conclusion.

“John.” She says. It's a statement, not a question. Sherlock tenses in her arms, apparently more alert. She kisses his forehead. “I saw you leaving.”

“I’m going to lose him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s got Mary and the baby.”

“The what?!” He flinches at her sudden increase in volume.

“Not important.” She disagrees but humours him.

“Well, why can’t he have Mary, the baby, and you?”

“He’s not going to have the time.”

“Sherlock, people can manage friendships and relationships at the same time.”

“You can’t.” She laughs despite herself.

“Whose fault would that be, I wonder?”

“Mm.” She feels his smile spread against her chest. She looks down to see that his eyes have fallen shut and moves her hand from his back to his head, gently running her fingers through his hair. He’s soon sound asleep again.

He spends the next week at her flat – moving between her bed and the bathroom floor – until both she and Mycroft are satisfied that he’s out of the woods. As she opens the door to see him out she promises him that she’s not going to be this nice to him next time.

 

* * *

 

 

When she slaps him across the face in the middle of the lab there’s a look in her eyes that absolutely screams _‘I fucking warned you’_. No amount of scathing remarks about the failure of another relationship is going to distract her from the fact that he’s done this to her again. To all of them. Once he leaves, she doesn’t see him again until she’s sat next to his hospital bed, running her fingers across his knuckles again and staring at the gauze taped to his chest.

“Will you ever bloody learn?” She murmurs, bringing his knuckles to her lips. Or rather her lips to his knuckles – she’s terrified to move him.

“Prob’ly not.” She jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice.

“Jesus Christ.” She rests her forehead against his hip and feels his fingers in her hair. “Is any of it true?” He wonders what she’s talking about, before catching sight of the newspapers across the room.

“No. Revenge profits. Needed to get into Magnussen’s office. She’s his secretary. Hasn’t done me much good.”

“I think that might be worse.” She frowns, lifting her head. He dismissively raises his eyebrows. Molly glances at the morphine drip. “Can’t even blame you this time, can I?” 

She does her best not to let on about anything when she admits he uses her flat as a bolthole – she just wants him back in a hospital. Claims he’s not a hero then goes out trying to catch a bloody criminal with a bullet wound in his chest. Make your mind up, Sherlock.

It’s Mycroft that tells her, in the end, calls her up on boxing day. He’s shot somebody – a villain, no less, but he's still not a hero – and is being exiled on New Years Day for the trouble. She’s not shocked when he shows up at 10 o’clock on New Year's Eve. Molly’s got half a bottle of Prosecco in her by then and so doesn’t hesitate to throw herself on him when she opens the door.

“You made me live without you for so long, and now you’re going to do it again.” She bounces her fist off of his chest. He couldn’t really argue with that, could he? 

“I’m sorry.” He mutters into her hair, kicking the door closed behind him and tightening his grip around her. “I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t realise that he’s apologising for something he hasn’t done yet. He sits with her. Sees in the New Year with a kiss. Leaves her in the morning with a kiss, too.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hello?” She hasn’t left the lab since _his_ face popped up on one of the computer screens. The only contact she's had is texting John to make sure it wasn’t just her, and that it wasn't in her head.

_“Doctor Hooper.”_

“What the hell is going on? Where’s Sherlock?”

_“In a private hospital room in Luton and Dunstable.”_

“What’s he done, Mycroft?”

_“I am sure my brother would rather that he told you than me.”_

“You mean that he deserves to have to tell me himself."

_“Does it matter? A car is waiting outside the hospital. I assure you it is safe for you to leave.”_

An hour and a half later she’s wandering the halls of the hospital trying to figure out where the hell his room is when she bumps – quite literally – into John.

“Oh thank God.” Is his immediate, urgent response. He briefly throws his arms around her before turning her around and putting his hand on her back to guide her to the room. “He’s been asking for you.” She frowns, unsure what to say, focusses on matching the speed John’s walking at.

“I-is he… okay? Mycroft wouldn’t tell me what he’d done.” She stammers. John goes to speak and thinks better of it.

“He’s asleep, or he was when I left.” Molly nods. They come to a halt a moment later, outside a door that – deliberately, she’s certain – doesn’t have his name on it. John smiles sadly before pushing the door open, revealing Mycroft and Mary sat in two oversized armchairs. Mycroft watches Sherlock with a frown, while Mary’s eyes flit between various monitors that are keeping track of his vitals. When she catches sight of him, Molly has to close her eyes and take a deep breath before she can convince herself to step in. Much to Mycroft’s disappointment, Sherlock doesn’t need to tell her what he’s done – she already knows. She goes to bolt out of the room before John stops her with an arm across her chest.

“Molly, please.” Mycroft’s broken voice sounds from across the room. She doesn’t think he’s ever called her Molly before. She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. John pulls her in again, and that’s basically it for any hope she had of not crying. She wonders why John’s so adamant to make sure that she’s here, but with Mycroft about he must know by now why Sherlock was asking for her. Mycroft calls for two more chairs for the room, and the four of them settle in for a lengthy waiting game.

Two hours later, Sherlock begins to stir, causing John and Mycroft to jump to their feet and Molly and Mary to lean towards the bed. Molly rests her fingertips on his arm as she watches his eyes focus.

“Alright, Sherlock?” John asks. Sherlock nods, raising his hand to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’m fine.” He manages, for the sake of politeness (yes, politeness – they’re all surprised too) to maintain a minute or so of conversation before he gives up. “Can I have a moment with Molly, please?” He mutters. John exchanges a glance with Mycroft, who nods curtly and starts for the door.

“Yeah.” John follows behind, letting Mary step out ahead of him. “Sincerely hope she gives you the bollocking you deserve.” He adds as an afterthought. Molly just raises her eyebrows. Sherlock starts speaking the second he hears the door close.

“Moll—”

“It is completely beyond me how you’ve managed to convince so many people that you’re anything close to intelligent. How many crimes have you solved where somebody’s died of an overdose, Sherlock? What is going through your head?”

“Molly—”

“You could be dead, Sherlock.” She rests her elbows on the mattress and drops her head into her hands, smoothing out her ponytail. She’d give anything for him to tell her that he’d carefully calculated every dosage to the fourth decimal place to make sure that he didn’t die. She’d give anything to stop him saying what he does. Four beeps of the heart monitor later, he replies.

“I intended to be dead.” She looks up at him through red, watery eyes.

“Sorry?” He takes a deep, stabilising breath.

“I was going on a suicide mission. I wanted to go out on my own terms. Euphoria rather than torture. Seemed the lesser of two evils. It wasn’t self-destructive, this time, Molly.”

“Attempted suicide isn’t self-destructive?” She very carefully enunciates every word.

“No more so than opting for a six-month death.” She doesn’t know whether to be angry at him or at Mycroft, but the beeping of the heart monitor continues regardless, and he’s alive, and he’s breathing, and he’s in front of her, and that’s true against all odds. She can’t help but wonder if she’d have done the same thing.

“If you ever do anything even close to this again, Sherlock, I swear to God—”

“I thought about you.”

“When?”

“When I was…” He can’t bring himself to say the word to her, so waves his hand about instead, hoping the gesture is enough. “I thought about you and Janine.” Molly’s stomach flips at the name. Sherlock seems to sense it; grabs hold of her hand. “No, no, it was a manifestation of guilt.” He clarifies. She smiles slightly.

“Ah – hindsight’s a wonderful thing.” He hums his agreement. 

“Forgive me, Molly.” It’s a statement, and he’s half asleep again, but he’s pleading too. She squeezes his hand.

“Alright," she glances up at him. "William.”

They both pretend to ignore the sound of the heart monitor picking up speed.


End file.
